


Little Wolf

by GreenasCole



Series: A Deadly Sin [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha Stiles, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, Claudia Stilinski Feels, F/F, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, He gets better, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Manipulative Peter, Multi, Norse Folklore, Pack Dynamics, Post-Season/Series 02, Resurrection, Scott is a Bad Friend, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Slow Build, Werecreature Stiles, native american folklore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenasCole/pseuds/GreenasCole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jackson pulls a nasty trick on Stiles's seventeenth birthday, he may go off the deep end, just a bit.  Peter notices and hatches a plot.  </p><p>No one is surprised.</p><p>Now Beacon Hills has a serious Alpha overpopulation problem, Scott is caught in a tug of war between Stiles, Derek, Isaac, and Allison, and the Sheriff knows everything.</p><p>It's going to be a long summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again. The problem with coming up with a canon divergent series and starting with the later works is that when you go back and try to write the one where the actual divergence takes place. It took months but finally I figured out how to make it work by starting it at the end of season two.
> 
> Also, the reason I took the possible future mpreg warning out of TGAMCAT is because I'm inserting it here. Even if I don't actually do it for a very long time, the biology of it and how it affects Sterek will come very much into play.
> 
> Also the second, Derek and Stiles don't actually get together-together until the third piece in the series (Devil, the 3B one), so consider this a mondo slow build warning.

Stiles thoroughly enjoyed the last two weeks. Jackson is all de-scaled, Gerard hasn’t been seen since he slithered away leaving behind a trail of putrid black goo, and the surviving Argents have barely set foot outside their house. Beacon Hills is back to normal. Ish. Now that he knows about the Secret World of Werewolves and Whatnot, Stiles is kind of assuming that there are witches or zombies or pixies or whatever behind everything remotely unusual he sees or hears about. Hopefully the paranoia will wear off eventually, but he isn’t holding his breath. Instead Stiles is happily enabling Scott’s return to best friend form, and if their marathon gaming sessions and goofing off on the lacrosse field involve a lot less of him actually winning occasionally than he’s used to and a lot more accidental controller death via newly unanchored wolf strength, he can deal. _Anything_ is an improvement over the last three months. So they hang out, talk about anything other than howling at the moon and mooning at the Allison, eat junk food, go to school, and try to remember that they’re sophomores in high school, not the stars of a supernatural teen movie. Stiles traps Scott in his bed with mountain ash for April Fools and accepts the guy’s yelping and flailing all over the place as he ricocheted around, bouncing between the bed and the barrier as sufficient repayment as stipulated under the Bro Code. So when he wakes up the morning of his seventeenth birthday (technically it’s the day after, because of reasons, but whatever) brimming with excitement, his impersonation of a ferret on speed perfectly justified, healthy even.

“Whoa! Where’s the fire, Kiddo?” his dad asks when Stiles comes careening into the kitchen, sliding on socked feet and still in his pajamas.

“Morning, Dad!” he chirps. “ _Ooooh_ chocolate chip?”

His dad nods. “Made with bacon grease.”

Stiles narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Funny. I don’t _see_ any bacon.”

“I thought you liked mysteries?”

He lets it go. They talk about his mom slightly less often than Derek Hale takes an acoustic guitar out into the preserve to sing Kumbaya to his furry forest pals, but they keep her Calories Don’t Count on Birthdays and Holidays tradition alive in unspoken memoriam. “So, we still on for our Putt Putt extravaganza?” Every year on his birthday or nearest convenient Saturday they pick up Scott and head to the mini golf course, buy the Unlimited pass, and bounce back and forth between the holes, the arcade, and the snack bar, getting progressively more giddy and sugar drunk until golf looks more like lacrosse, and either stay until closing or until the management kicks them out. Currently they’re tied at 3-3 and he’s hoping this will be a kicked out year, because he needs him some blissfully normal human kid shenanigans, which is why it feels like an Alpha kicks him in the nads when his dad’s face falls.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. The County Commissioner’s office has been hounding me to hire some new Deputies, and with Easter week after next and the Peach Blossom Faire the week after that…”

Stiles groans inwardly on behalf of all the civil servants of Beacon Hills. For some reason their quaint little town has yet to notice that it hasn’t been either of those things since the 50’s, which makes the dozen or so charming little festivals they throw every year an unholy torment for the people responsible for keeping the hordes of tipsy revelers from burning the place to the ground (he suspects the Hale family is to blame as most of these celebrations fall on Pagan Festival days or their modern equivalents, but can’t really be mad at a family that was horrifically murdered and all). Any other year he would have pled, wheeled, and connived to get his dad to put him first, or failing that, let him help pick out the new hires just so they could spend the day together. This year, however, he bites his tongue without complaint. “No, yeah; I understand.” Ah, Bad Son Guilt, the gift that keeps on giving.

His dad gives him a small, proud smile that tears him up inside. “You’re a good kid, Stiles.” Twist. Rip. And out comes the heart. “I should be done with the interviews in time for cake with you and Scott after mini golf.”

Considering the number of times his dad nearly died recently because of him, he’ll take what he can get. “Sure. That’s cool.” He puts on his best I’m A Teenager And Relieved To Get Out Of Hanging Out With A Parent In Public Face, and tries not to puke. “Go. Protect. Serve. Have curly fries.”

“Ten-four Boss,” his dad replies drily, drains the last of his coffee and pulls him into a hug. “Happy Birthday Son.”

Stiles kind of wants to die.

 

***

 

Scott was supposed to be over at ten so they could map out the best strategy for optimum fun having before heading out. Stiles isn’t remotely surprised when the doorbell still hasn’t rung by ten thirty; Scott wasn’t exactly punctual even before the combined pressure of the full moon and his Allison obsession cause his brains to turn into mush, and it _is_ a Saturday morning after all. By eleven he’s starting to worry. Half an hour later he’s edging towards panic because the bastard _isn’t picking up his god damn phone_. When Scott’s name finally appears on the caller ID Stiles lurches to answer it so fast he somehow manages to fall off the couch.

“Scott! Where the hell..?”

“Stiles!”

Scott is panicking. Two weeks of peace is all they get, apparently. “Dude what’s wrong? Is it werewolves? Kanimas? I’m freaking the fuck out over here!”

“Stiles will you just _listen_?” (Stiles pinches himself to make sure this isn’t a dream, because it shouldn’t be possible for that much hypocrisy to exist in one sentence without collapsing into a black hole and consuming the entire solar system.) “I saw Jackson he told me Lydia told him that Allison is _leaving_. For _France_. Maybe _forever_!”

“Did she use the same travel agent your common sense did when it took off? Because I bet she got a good rate!” Stiles snaps. Something dark and ugly and so fucking hurt is welling up inside him. They were supposed to spend the day being awesome juts like old times, and the night with a B Horror marathon and the twelve pack of Newcastle Brown Danny got for him.

“What are talking about? Look, she’s got a long layover in Chicago. I’m gonna try and catch her there.” Scott interprets his incoherent sputtering as _Go Get Her, Man! I’m behind you 500%!_ Moron. “Look, my mom thinks I’m staying over at your place tonight anyway, so all you have to do is cover for me if she calls, okay?”

“Where are you going to get the money for a plane ticket?” Stiles blurts. A rational argument might get through. Given the sucking pit of rage and despair swallowing his birthday whole it’s clearly opposite day in Stilinski World. “You didn’t use your motorcycle fund did you?”

“Huh? No. Jackson took care of it for me.”

He absently drags a hand up and down the side of his face. “Just how hard _did_ I hit him with the Jeep?”

“Listen, I gotta go. Thanks man!”

Stiles stands there breathing heavily and vibrating with restrained fury while the tiny pieces of his phone skitter around the floor. Hopefully his dad won’t notice the piece of brick it broke off the edge of the fireplace. If he does Stiles might just come clean and tell the man everything, at which point his dad might do what he can’t and break a piece or two off Scott. Actually? Stiles wants to do it himself. He just needs to learn _how_ first.

He gets in the Jeep and burns rubber to the animal clinic, swearing sulfrously the whole way.

 

***

 

“Ah, Stiles,” Deaton greets genially, just standing there behind the counter like he’s foreseen Stiles’s coming, and who knows? Maybe the Doc _has_. “I was hoping you’d stop by sometime. I have something for you.” He reaches below the counter and pulls out a mason jar filled with a familiar sparkling black powder. “I thought you might find this useful next week. Call it a birthday present.” Deaton smiles, probably imagining Stiles will share an inside laugh with him over cleverly avoiding getting mauled on next week’s moon.

Clearly the man is not, in fact psychic, because making his birthday about Scott might literally be the single worst thing could do right now. “I want you to teach me your druid stuff,” he says bluntly. If takes the time to come up with a more delicate or elaborate way to ask his head will probably explode.

Deaton’s look of surprise is in no way convincing. “What makes you think I know anything about… _druid stuff_?”

Stiles brandishes the jar with sideways T-shape on the label. “Dude, you mark your magic fairy dust with fucking _Ogham Runes_. Duh. So come on, Yoda. Teach me the ways of the force already.

“Hmm, I seem to recall a line about how anger leads to a number of unpleasant consequences. The Dark Side for instance?”

“Yeah, so?” Two can play dumb.

“So, I can’t help but wonder why you’re here now when it’s been almost a month since you worked the mountain ash.”

“Why? Because…because…” Because he’s so fucking _tired_ of the status quo and so he’s going to _change it_.

Deaton smiles at him sadly. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. Take some time to get your feet under yourself, and if you still wish to learn we can discuss it then.”

It’s so very reasonable, and prudent, and probably a bunch of other things that are supposed to sound like sense, but the words curdle in Stiles ears. “Sure. Whatever. Thanks for nothing,” he snarls, and storms out.

 

***

 

He stalks into his house intent on attacking his birthday beer and getting blind, fall-down stupid drunk, but the Universe, it seems, is not done fucking with him just yet, because he doesn’t even make it to the garage where he’s stashed the cooler before there’s a knocking at the front door. Stiles whirls, praying it’s a Jehovah’s Witness, or an encyclopedia salesman, or anyone that he can scream at guilt free for fucking up his day even further.

It’s Isaac. Hallelujah, there _is_ a God.

“Are you stalking me? _Again_? Sorry asshole, but I’m fresh out of Kanimas, Hunters, and flimsy excuses for Derek and his Bitch Brigade to show up and assault me out of the blue. Now, what the fuck are you doing at my house?”

Isaac’s deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression would be hilarious if Stiles had any emotional bandwidth left with which to feel humor. “Um…happy birthday?” the Beta squeaks, flinches with his whole body when Stiles lets out an almost werewolf-worthy roar.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I…I was just trying to find Scott,” Isaac stammers.

“Duh, obviously,” Stiles snarls. “Hate to burst your bubble, Beta Boy, but unlike you Scott doesn’t have a clue what day it is and went flying off to Chicago to have a Rom Com moment with Allison. How did _you_ know anyway?” he demands suspiciously.

“Um…Jackson said something about getting you a present?” Isaac offers faintly.

The incandescent rage coursing through Stiles like a wildfire snuffs out in an instant, replaced by something deadly calm, steel-hard, and very _very_ cold. “Seen Jackson recently?”

Poor Isaac looks like he’s halfway to wolfing out right there on the stoop and running away screaming with his tail tucked between his legs (Stiles will no doubt feel terrible about this, _later_ ). “He’s probably still at Derek’s place.”

“The rail station?”

“No, the new one.”

Stiles nods, satisfied. “Good. I need to talk to him too.” He gets to kill two wolves with one stone; mostly probably not literally. “I’ll drive.”

 

***

 

Derek’s loft is actually a huge step up, not that burned out ruins and abandoned depots set much of a bar, but the renovated old building actually borders on hipster chic. It looks like you can take the wolf out of Brooklyn etc…

Stiles doesn’t bother knocking (it’s not like they don’t already know it’s him by his scent and heartbeat) and throws open the heavy sliding door. “Sup?” he greets brightly. Derek is holding wolf court with the only people that can stand to be around him for any length of time, namely his psycho undead uncle, a megalomaniacal ex-lizard, the kid who probably thought anything was better than a freezer in the basement, and Lydia, because she’s the best at _tolerating_ people.

He’s not sure exactly what his face is doing, but it prompts Lydia to say, “Jackson, maybe you should go,” in a strained voice.

Jackson laughs.

Derek takes a step to the side, out of the way but within lunging range.

Peter, the whacko, settles down on the spiral staircase with a look of malicious anticipation plastered on his creepy smug face.

Isaac lets out a high pitched whine from his spot half-hidden behind the door.

“What, am I supposed to _scared_?” Jackson asks mockingly. “By the way, _Happy_ Birthday, _Nilcheese_.”

Maybe he’s still holding the right cross, the humiliations, the kidnapping, or the getting run over against Stiles. Maybe his time as the Kanima has damaged his memory and he’s forgotten what happened he used that awful deliberate mispronunciation of the name Stiles’s mom gave him. And maybe he no one ever told him about the mountain ash the night of the rave.

Stiles is more than happy to demonstrate, and tosses the handful he shoved in his pocket before leaving the house into air. Imagination is more important than knowledge. He _knows_ he can make the mountain ash do physically impossible things because he’s done it before. And right now he’s imagining a certain scene from the third Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Instead of spreading out into a cloud, the dust coalesces into nearly solid tendrils that wrap around Jackson’s head and start worming their way into his nose, mouth, eyes, and ears. The Beta pitches over backwards, clawing at his face and coughing.

“Stiles, while I’m sure he did something to deserve…that,” Derek says patiently, though his eyes glow red, “But I you want him to apologize you should probably _stop that before you burn out his vocal chords_.”

“I really don’t care what he has to say for himself,” Stiles replies nonchalantly. He does believe the ash back into quiescence, though. Of course, it’s still lodged in every opening on Jackson’s head like a solid form of bear mace, which should keep him from trying to take this little stunt out of Stiles’s ass for long enough for him to have a chat with Derek. “There, your precious pet iguana is safe. By the way, I want The Bite.”

Stiles has seen the Alpha’s eyebrows do some impressive emoting, but _this_ expression is new. Both are halfway up to his hairline and leaning sharply down and to the left. He dubs it the _When the Fuck Did I Arrive in the Land of Oz_ look.

Peter laughs delightedly. “Oh _please_ say yes, Derek. I just _have_ to see how he turns out.”

“You just want a front row seat to watch Spazzilla destroying Tokyo,” Derek growls at his uncle. “No, Stiles.”

“Oh what, _now_ you have standards?” Stiles asks sweetly waving a hand at Jackson writhing away on the floor while Lydia hovers uncertainly next to him.

But Derek, it seems, is not in the mood to be sidetracked. “If you really wanted to be a werewolf you would have asked before now. Are you really willing to be my Beta? _Scott_ is your Alpha, not me.”

“Scott isn’t here,” Stiles grits out. “Besides, you may be giant, broody were-tool, and I kinda hate your guts, but at least you Show Up once in a while.” He has to give the guy credit, albeit grudgingly, because the Alpha is pretty quick on the uptake.

Derek looks between Stiles, Isaac, and Jackson and snarls, “Lydia, what did Jackson do?”

“He bought Scott a plane ticket so he could go after Allison,” she admits flatly.

“And miss Stiles’s birthday,” Isaac adds almost to quiet to hear.

Derek looks like he’s deeply regretting all of his life choices (better late than never). “I get it,” he says sincerely. It’s downright unsettling on him. “But this isn’t the answer, not for you.”

“No, of course not,” Stiles seethes, but the fight is starting to drain out of him, leaving only unspeakable weariness in its wake. “I’m starting to get used to all the _not_ _you-ing_. Good thing I’ve gotten so much practice at taking care of myself lately.”

He turns and leaves before the look of pity can fully solidify on Derek’s face. Because that? _That_ might be thing that finally breaks him.

 

***

 

Stiles is…some number of beers into the twelve pack, he’s not sure exactly how many, because the row of dead soldiers lined up on his desk keeps splitting in two then recombining, which makes them hard to count. Whatever, it’s enough to have gotten the job done, and he’s going to have a killer hangover in the morning; _anything_ to make this day seem less shitty by comparison. Honestly he’s a it impressed with himself that he’s still vertical-ish; he expected to be on the floor by now. He definitely doesn’t expect to swivel around in his desk chair (whee!) and find Peter Hale smirking at him. It’s a little embarrassing that the drunken version of his surprised flailing is actually more coordinated than the sober one.

“Hey! Necrowolf! You trying to scare me to death so I’ll join your zombie army?” He is the _wittiest_. Take that, creeper!

Peter rolls his eyes. “If I thought you would be more useful to me dead I would already have myself a lovely pair of custom Stiles-skin gloves.”

“Easy on the imagery,” Stiles groans lurching to his feet. “I’m already, like, three-quarters of the way to projectile vomiting all over just from looking at your face. Which is stupid.” Okay, so maybe his repartee _does_ suffer a little under the effects of alcohol.

“I’ll be brief then,” Peter says pleasantly (creepy!) and tosses a thumb drive at Stiles.

It bounces off his forehead. “Was that really necessary?” he grouses.

“Happy Birthday Niłchiis. I wasn’t lying when I said I liked you. You really do live up to your namesake.”

Great, more name jokes. “Are you saying I smell?” They’re okay when _he_ says them, duh. It takes a second for the fact that Peter pronounced his name perfectly to sink in.   “Hey wait…”

“Good night, Stiles.”

He doesn’t remember if Peter hangs around long enough to answer his question.


	2. Chapter 2

Jackson’s back hits the floor, again, and this time he doesn’t get up.

“Focus on your anchor,” Derek says flatly, even though he knows it’s useless. Since blaming his Beta for backsliding is equally useless, however fair, he’s putting this one on Scott McCall. The Alphas have Eric and Boyd, are keeping them from him somewhere within his own territory. It’s a deliberate, calculated insult that provokes his instincts in a perpetual furious burr snarling in the back of his mind. Now one of the only two he has left (Peter doesn’t, _can’t_ count, but Derek will use him as resource for as long as he can, however much he hates that he needs him) is a bloody, panting wreck, Jackson’s chance at starting over somewhere far from Beacon Hills dying a slow, painful death. Derek once called Scott his brother, and the dark irony of that statement has proven prophetic, because the only members of his family he has left seem determined to rip it apart, sometimes literally. “Get up.”

Jackson growls sullenly, the shift receding from exhaustion instead of control. “ _This_ , is stupid.”

“Then go home,” Derek snaps. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” It’s the same thing he’s said every day for a week, and things are only getting worse as the moon waxes towards full.

“ _Fine_.”

Peter ghosts into the loft at the same time Jackson leaves. “Obedience training is going well I see.”

“He’ll get there,” Derek snarls.

“At this point I’d say it’s more likely he’ll throw himself on your claws to put himself out of his misery,” Peter counters snarkily.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Well at least Deucalion will be happy.” He still can’t wrap his head around the fact the man his mother respected so much, that believed in peaceful coexistence enough to risk arranging a summit with Argents has become “The Demon Wolf”. Then again, the so called Alpha of Alphas had one hell of an object lesson in what comes from that kind of thinking. “Find anything?”

“Oh, a few points of interest here and there, but nothing that will lead us to your missing misfits; not yet anyway.”

“What are you up to now?” Derek asks tiredly.

He wants to claw the fatherly look Peter gives him right off the man’s face. “I’ve made an investment in our future. _Naturally_ I have to keep track of how well it’s maturing.”

Someday his uncle will literally transform into a sphinx. Derek plans to sell him to a zoo. “Really? And how _is_ it coming along?” he asks conversationally. _Cut the shit and tell me what the fuck you’ve done before I kill you again_ , he says with his eyes. Subtextual death threatening: fun for the whole family.

“Not well,” Peter grimaces. “But I think I found a solution...”

Derek tunes out his uncle’s bullshitting and focuses on the on the sounds of the person coming up the stairs towards the loft. Beta, Omega, or wannabe Alpha, he knows the heartbeat of Hale wolf when he hears it, and the person attached to this one has been very much on his mind today. “Scott’s here.”

“I’ll make popcorn,” Peter replies with a vicious smirk.

The Omega storms into the loft a moment later as though it’s not the den of an Alpha, reeking of indignant rage, confusion, and guilt. “What did you do to Stiles?” he demands fangs out and eyes glowing.

Derek doesn’t even try to pretend the question isn’t confusing as hell. “Excuse me?”

“He won’t talk to me for a week, stops answering my calls, my own mom keeps looking at me like I killed somebody, and his house is surrounded by mountain ash and Peter’s scent is everywhere? _You did something_!”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Derek may not particularly want Stiles in his pack, the kid has all of Scott’s defiance _and_ Peter’s bloodless practicality (not to mention the world’s most annoying smartass mouth), but even so it’s hard not feel enrage on his behalf out of common decency. If Scott wants answers Derek is more than _happy_ to give them. “He asked me for The Bite. I said no,” he says nonchalantly.

Scott looks almost comically horrified at this pronouncement. “No way. Stiles would _never_ do that. Not unless Peter was manipulating him just like he did Lydia.”

Derek keeps his expression blandly uninterested. “Why not? He’s almost died how many times saving your ass?” Startled flinch. “And many of those were you trying to kill him?” _Guilty_ flinch. “Maybe he wants to be able to protect himself, since you’ve got more important things to do.”

“I already apologized for-for last weekend,” Scott protests.

“Say it, Scott. _Out loud_ ,” Derek says harshly. “You blew off your best friend’s birthday so you could chase after the girl that wanted to turn you into a _rug_.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Scott screams. “Allison was _leaving_ and I…”

“Forgot?” Peter suggests. “Because Stiles isn’t important enough to remember?”

“He’s my best friend!”

Derek sees that the Omega is about to snap and attack them, and as much as he would enjoy beating the ever loving crap out of him, he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold back enough to avoid being murdered by a vengeful nurse practitioner. “Did Allison take you back?” he asks changing tacks.

“She..she agreed to Skype with me while she’s in France,” Scott replies.

The hope that flickers over the kid’s face tears something loose in Derek’s chest. “Get off my property,” he snarls, thoroughly enjoying the quickly aborted gesture of submission his gets by showing his eyes. “If you come here again I’ll call the cops. I’m sure Sheriff Stilinksi would love to arrest you right about now.”

Scott gapes at him for a moment before his crumples and he flees the loft without stopping to close the door behind him.

“Bet that felt good,” Peter drawls.

Derek hums in agreement. “It didn’t suck.” He rubs the back of his hand under his nose to blot out some of the lingering odor of Angry Omega polluting his den.

“Isaac won’t be happy about this,” Peter points out.

He sounds wickedly gleeful about the impending drama. Or it might just be that the man enjoys Derek’s misery. He’s well aware of his run of abysmal failures since he took over the pack, but the sting of watching his Beta, a wolf _he made_ gravitate towards another Alpha (and not even a _real_ one) is a special kind of torture. “Please tell me _Stiles_ isn’t your investment,” he growls.

“You _saw_ what he did to Jackson. Did you think that was just the power of teen angst?” Peter asks mockingly. “It doesn’t matter if we get the others back, or head for the border, or make twenty more dysfunctional teen wolves. We can’t beat the Alpha Pack by fighting them head on. Stiles might be the thing that gets at least some us out of this alive.”

Derek refuses to acknowledge the truth in Peter’s assessment of their situation, he completely agrees with it, but if he lets that dictate his actions he might as well just kill his pack now. At least it would be quick. He shoves those thoughts aside as ruthlessly as he is able and asks, “Since when are you a fan of Stiles?”

“Since he decked Jackson that night at the school. When I found out he knowingly let you rot in Kate’s S&M fun room to get you out of Scott’s hair I offered him The Bite myself. Also he killed me. That engenders a certain amount of respect for a person’s capabilities.”

Whatever else he decides Derek is not leaving Stiles and Peter alone together. Ever. _No one_ would be safe. “I seem to recall ripping your throat out. Maybe it was just a good dream,” he deadpans.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Stiles sent Chris Argent out to the house as cannon fodder while he went and whipped up a lethal dose of dramatic irony. I also have to wonder if both Molotovs were for me or if the second was for your delightful ex-girlfriend.”

Derek isn’t surprised Peter knows the truth about the fire, just that it took this long to sling that particular barb, and wonders at the timing. “He was protecting the people he cares about. That list just got a lot shorter, in case you haven’t been paying attention, and last I checked we were never on it in the first place.” Not that it would be hard to change that given the kid’s current emotional state, but taking advantage of him like that hits a little too close to home. “Besides, mountain ash is one thing, but it would take him years to learn enough to be useful in a real fight and the Alphas are here _now_.”

“Unless he has _help_ ,” Peter says intently.

Derek snorts ruefully. “From who, you? We can’t even use magic the same way humans can. Or maybe you were thinking about Deaton, who knew you were the one that killed Laura the whole time and lied to my face about it.” _That_ particular grudge isn’t going away any time soon.

“He’s an emissary,” Peter replies waving away his concerns. “His oath is to the Hale Alpha. He might not be inclined to help us but he can’t do anything to harm us directly. I gave Stiles a scan I made from one our old books.”

“I thought all of those were lost in the fire,” Derek says. A lot of their family’s knowledge survived in digital form on a cloud server, but he went through Peter’s laptop and didn’t see anything remotely like a grimoire.

“All except for the old seiðbók we keep in the vault.”

Derek bites back an exasperated sigh. “You gave him a thirteen-hundred year old book of Dark Nordic Shamanic magic? What do you think he’s going to be able to do with that exactly?”

Peter shrugs. “I found it useful if you recall.” He takes a couple things out of his pockets and tosses them over. “Give him these.”

Derek stares at the objects in his hands in annoyed disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“He’s having some self-worth issues for obvious reasons.”

“This will never work,” Derek mutters as he heads out, but dials Information to get the Stilinski’s home number anyway.

 

***

 

Stiles meets him at the door with a scowl and clipped declaration of, “I’m grounded and can’t have friends over. Make it fast.”

“Why are you grounded?” Derek asks without thinking. Whatever, it’s not like he’s expecting this go well.

“Because I smashed my cell phone and got wasted. My dad cut the grounding down from Forever to Two Weeks ‘cause it was birthday and all,” Stiles says acidly.

Derek decides to simply ignore the kid’s venom for the duration. “Peter said you’re having trouble with the book he gave you. I’m here to help.”

“Riiiiiiight.” Stiles leans out of the doorway and looks upwards.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if the sky has turned orange on me.”

“I Showed Up,” Derek points out. “Do you want my help?”

Stiles regards him silently for a long moment, lets out a disgusted sound, and steps aside, waving him through the door with a mocking flourish. “Come on in.”

They head up to Stiles’s room in uncommunicative silence. It ‘s unnatural for Stiles to take part in silence of any kind and it makes Derek nervous. The sight that greets him in the kid’s bedroom does nothing whatsoever to lessen his feeling of unease. Loose sheets of paper with runes and translations cover the desk, the floor, the bed, and most of one wall. There are small glass bottles of herbs, powders, and bits of other things Derek doesn’t want to examine too closely. “You’ve…redecorated.”

“If by that you mean that it looks like an insane propmaster from the set of Merlin threw up in here, then yes,” Stiles drawls.

“How did you get all this translated in one week?” Derek wonders.

“I had a whole Runes Are Cool phase a few years back. It was a thing.”

What the hell kind of teenager teaches himself dead Scandinavian languages as _a thing_. “You can read Old Norse?”

“Dude, it’s _Proto_ -Norse,” Stiles corrects, like that makes it any less weird. “And it’s actually not that hard to figure out with an Old Norse dictionary when the source text is in the original Elder Futhark instead of the English transliteration.”

“Right, of course,” Derek murmurs. “So if you can read it what’s the problem?”

Stiles grunts in frustration and plops down in his desk chair. “I _don’t know_. I’m not even sure this thing is the real deal. The hocus pocus in this book doesn’t match up with any description of Nordic witchcraft that I could find. There’s no Galdr, nothing at all about the Nine Realms, and with all this herbal stuff I’m starting to wonder if it’s actually a cookbook for weirdly seasoned savory dishes. I’ve tried all kinds of things and _nothing_ I do works.” He sighs dejectedly. “Maybe I should just re-panel the walls in rowan and live as a hermit.”

Derek hates that Peter is always right; it makes it hard to justify killing him again. “Do you have a candle?”

“Like for a lamp? So you’re saying I should just give up and get my Diogenes on?” Stiles quips.

“A candle, Stiles. Yes or no.”

The kid rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Hold on Sour Wolf.”

The degree to which Stiles’s scent and mood have already brightened just from bitching and insulting him is making Derek uncomfortable, like this is the first substantive and most pleasant conversation the kid has had all week. It’s inexplicably depressing. “Put it on the desk.”

Stiles sets down a squat pillar candle and gives him. “Matches,” he mutters to himself.

“No matches. You’re going to light it with magic,” Derek says firmly. He’s never been much of an actor, but if he needs to muster up a convincing semblance of confidence if he wants Dumbo here to make it off the ground.

“Okay, I might enjoy breaking a rule or two every now and then, but maybe we start with something a little smaller than the fucking _Laws of Thermodynamics_?” Stiles snarks.

 _Runes Are Cool_. There are pages with the summaries of the ideographic meanings of the Elder Futhark are right there, so he makes something up on the fly. “Inscribe this into the side of the candle: Hagalaz, Thurisaz, Kenaz.”

“Linear or Bind?”

“Bind,” Derek guesses.

“Right, that makes sense, Stiles murmurs starting to sound a little bit excited. He pulls an exacto knife out of drawer and uses it to carve in the symbols overlapping one another. The result looks a little like a stick figure man holding a stick, but Derek keeps that opinion to himself.

“Now sprinkle this on the wick,” he says handing him the vial Peter provided.

“What is it?” Stile asks uncorking it and taking a sniff, reeling back with a revolted expression when the scent of it hits him.

“Baelfire.”

“Been reading too much Robert Jordan have we?” Stiles drawls. “What the frilly heck is _balefire_?”

Derek snorts in amusement and gestures pointedly at the candle. “It’s charcoal from the Beltane Fire mixed with sulfur,” he explains as Stiles dusts the top of the candle with pungent powder.

“So basically, it’s gunpowder without a nitrate catalyst,” Stiles concludes. “If you tell me to “be that spark” I will mountain ash you into a corner and leave you there,” he warns.

“Just close your eyes and concentrate on lighting the candle,” Derek replies repressing a smile.

As expected, after a minute or so imperious gesturing while looking extremely constipated (it’s so, so hard not laugh) Stiles lets out a frustrated snarl turns a accusatory glare on him. “I can’t do this.”

Derek pulls the second prop he brought out of his pocket. “This triskele is a talisman my family has used for generations to focus our power,” he says solemnly, holding it out with reverence. “Alpha, Beta, Omega.”

Stiles accepts the metal disk carefully, staring it with wide eyes as though it might explode if not treated with respect. He rubs a thumb over the spirals with one hand and touches the runes engraved on the candle with other. “Kenaz, Thurisaz, Hagalaz. Control, Conflict, Chaos.”

“Exactly,” Derek says giving himself a mental pat on the back. “Again. Try keeping your eyes open this time.”

Stiles stares at the candle’s wick so hard the veins in forehead start to bulge out, but nothing happens.

Derek uses his last ditch strategy before the kid gives himself an aneurysm. “Scott came by my loft today…”

A thin jet of flame two feet high erupts from the candle, brilliant blue and blindingly bright. Stiles lets out a noise a charitable person might call a squeal and topples over backwards in his chair. “That. Was. _Awesome_!” he crows.

“That’s one word for it,” Derek mutters. _Disturbing_ would be another. In any case it _is_ impressive. He just never would have guessed that the thing holding Stiles back would be an _excess_ of emotional control. “Still feel like you need The Bite?”

Stiles pauses in his embarrassing victory dance and gives him a thoughtful look. “Would that make like, a hexenwulf? Because being a werewolf that can hurl magical fireballs would be _Bad Ass_.”

Disturbing is definitely the right word. “The book was written by ancestors so…maybe?”

“Let’s call that plan B, then,” Stiles says returning to his bizarre avian flailing. “So, does this make the new Deaton?”

“That’s the general idea,” Derek allows cautiously. “If you want.”

Stiles shrugs diffidently. “Meh, I’ll think about it.”

Who does he think he’s kidding? “Just try not to blow yourself up or open a hellmouth.”

“Dude I am _so_ Willow right now.”

The comparison is less than comforting, considering, and reminds Derek of potentially serious problem, one that he really wishes he didn’t have to deal with. But he is the Alpha, and it comes with the territory. “You need to fix things with Scott,” he says seriously.

Stiles freezes, joyous expression vanishing behind a stony mask. “I get it. You still want _him_ in your pack.”

The scent of _hurt_ rolling off him is so strong Derek feels a spike of sympathetic pain. “Yes,” he says truthfully. “But you are more valuable.”

“Uh huh.” Stiles clearly doesn’t believe him one bit.

“He’s your best friend. You need each other. It has nothing to do with me or my pack.”

“I guess.”

Derek will take it. “Get back to work, Stiles. I need you to be able to pull your own weight.”

The kid draws himself and fixes him with a challenging glare. “Okay, I’ll get right on that,” he replies sarcastically.

“Good,” Derek nods as though the snark went over his head.

He leaves after that, hanging around outside the house just long enough to hear Stiles diving into his papers with a constant angry-determined muttering.

Derek smiles to himself, shaking his head in exasperation tinged with beginning of something dangerously close to fondness. Certain disaster or no, Peter _was_ right; this is going to be interesting.

Jackson’s back hits the floor, again, and this time he doesn’t get up.

“Focus on your anchor,” Derek says flatly, even though he knows it’s useless.Since blaming his Beta for backsliding is equally useless, however fair, he’s putting this one on Scott McCall.The Alphas have Eric and Boyd, are keeping them from him somewhere within his own territory.It’s a deliberate, calculated insult that provokes his instincts in a perpetual furious burr snarling in the back of his mind.Now one of the only two he has left (Peter doesn’t, _can’t_ count, but Derek will use him as resource for as long as he can, however much he hates that he needs him) is a bloody, panting wreck, Jackson’s chance at starting over somewhere far from Beacon Hills dying a slow, painful death.Derek once called Scott his brother, and the dark irony of that statement has proven prophetic, because the only members of his family he has left seem determined to rip it apart, sometimes literally.“Get up.”

Jackson growls sullenly, the shift receding from exhaustion instead of control.“ _This_ , is stupid.”

“Then go home,” Derek snaps. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”It’s the same thing he’s said every day for a week, and things are only getting worse as the moon waxes towards full.

“ _Fine_.”

Peter ghosts into the loft at the same time Jackson leaves.“Obedience training is going well I see.”

“He’ll get there,” Derek snarls.

“At this point I’d say it’s more likely he’ll throw himself on your claws to put himself out of his misery,” Peter counters snarkily.

Derek rolls his eyes.“Well at least Deucalion will be happy.”He still can’t wrap his head around the fact the man his mother respected so much, that believed in peaceful coexistence enough to risk arranging a summit with Argents has become “The Demon Wolf”.Then again, the so called Alpha of Alphas had one hell of an object lesson in what comes from that kind of thinking.“Find anything?”

“Oh, a few points of interest here and there, but nothing that will lead us to your missing misfits; not yet anyway.”

“What are you up to now?” Derek asks tiredly.

He wants to claw the fatherly look Peter gives him right off the man’s face.“I’ve made an investment in our future. _Naturally_ I have to keep track of how well it’s maturing.”

Someday his uncle will literally transform into a sphinx.Derek plans to sell him to a zoo.“Really?And how _is_ it coming along?” he asks conversationally. _Cut the shit and tell me what the fuck you’ve done before I kill you again_ , he says with his eyes.Subtextual death threatening: fun for the whole family.

“Not well,” Peter grimaces.“But I think I found a solution...”

Derek tunes out his uncle’s bullshitting and focuses on the on the sounds of the person coming up the stairs towards the loft.Beta, Omega, or wannabe Alpha, he knows the heartbeat of Hale wolf when he hears it, and the person attached to this one has been very much on his mind today.“Scott’s here.”

“I’ll make popcorn,” Peter replies with a vicious smirk.

The Omega storms into the loft a moment later as though it’s not the den of an Alpha, reeking of indignant rage, confusion, and guilt.“What did you do to Stiles?” he demands fangs out and eyes glowing.

Derek doesn’t even try to pretend the question isn’t confusing as hell.“Excuse me?”

“He won’t talk to me for a week, stops answering my calls, my own mom keeps looking at me like I killed somebody, and his house is surrounded by mountain ash and Peter’s scent is everywhere? _You did something_!”

Jesus.Fucking.Christ.Derek may not particularly want Stiles in his pack, the kid has all of Scott’s defiance _and_ Peter’s bloodless practicality (not to mention the world’s most annoying smartass mouth), but even so it’s hard not feel enrage on his behalf out of common decency.If Scott wants answers Derek is more than _happy_ to give them.“He asked me for The Bite.I said no,” he says nonchalantly.

Scott looks almost comically horrified at this pronouncement.“No way.Stiles would _never_ do that.Not unless Peter was manipulating him just like he did Lydia.”

Derek keeps his expression blandly uninterested.“Why not?He’s almost died how many times saving your ass?”Startled flinch.“And many of those were you trying to kill him?” _Guilty_ flinch.“Maybe he wants to be able to protect himself, since you’ve got more important things to do.”

“I already apologized for-for last weekend,” Scott protests.

“Say it, Scott. _Out loud_ ,” Derek says harshly.“You blew off your best friend’s birthday so you could chase after the girl that wanted to turn you into a _rug_.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Scott screams.“Allison was _leaving_ and I…”

“Forgot?” Peter suggests.“Because Stiles isn’t important enough to remember?”

“He’s my best friend!”

Derek sees that the Omega is about to snap and attack them, and as much as he would enjoy beating the ever loving crap out of him, he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold back enough to avoid being murdered by a vengeful nurse practitioner.“Did Allison take you back?” he asks changing tacks.

“She..she agreed to Skype with me while she’s in France,” Scott replies.

The hope that flickers over the kid’s face tears something loose in Derek’s chest.“Get off my property,” he snarls, thoroughly enjoying the quickly aborted gesture of submission his gets by showing his eyes.“If you come here again I’ll call the cops.I’m sure Sheriff Stilinksi would love to arrest you right about now.”

Scott gapes at him for a moment before his crumples and he flees the loft without stopping to close the door behind him.

“Bet that felt good,” Peter drawls.

Derek hums in agreement.“It didn’t suck.”He rubs the back of his hand under his nose to blot out some of the lingering odor of Angry Omega polluting his den.

“Isaac won’t be happy about this,” Peter points out.

He sounds wickedly gleeful about the impending drama.Or it might just be that the man enjoys Derek’s misery.He’s well aware of his run of abysmal failures since he took over the pack, but the sting of watching his Beta, a wolf _he made_ gravitate towards another Alpha (and not even a _real_ one) is a special kind of torture.“Please tell me _Stiles_ isn’t your investment,” he growls.

“You _saw_ what he did to Jackson.Did you think that was just the power of teen angst?” Peter asks mockingly.“It doesn’t matter if we get the others back, or head for the border, or make twenty more dysfunctional teen wolves.We can’t beat the Alpha Pack by fighting them head on.Stiles might be the thing that gets at least some us out of this alive.”

Derek refuses to acknowledge the truth in Peter’s assessment of their situation, he completely agrees with it, but if he lets that dictate his actions he might as well just kill his pack now.At least it would be quick.He shoves those thoughts aside as ruthlessly as he is able and asks, “Since when are you a fan of Stiles?”

“Since he decked Jackson that night at the school.When I found out he knowingly let you rot in Kate’s S&M fun room to get you out of Scott’s hair I offered him The Bite myself.Also he killed me.That engenders a certain amount of respect for a person’s capabilities.”

Whatever else he decides Derek is not leaving Stiles and Peter alone together.Ever. _No one_ would be safe.“I seem to recall ripping your throat out.Maybe it was just a good dream,” he deadpans.

Peter rolls his eyes.“Stiles sent Chris Argent out to the house as cannon fodder while he went and whipped up a lethal dose of dramatic irony.I also have to wonder if both Molotovs were for me or if the second was for your delightful ex-girlfriend.”

Derek isn’t surprised Peter knows the truth about the fire, just that it took this long to sling that particular barb, and wonders at the timing.“He was protecting the people he cares about.That list just got a lot shorter, in case you haven’t been paying attention, and last I checked we were never on it in the first place.”Not that it would be hard to change that given the kid’s current emotional state, but taking advantage of him like that hits a little too close to home.“Besides, mountain ash is one thing, but it would take him years to learn enough to be useful in a real fight and the Alphas are here _now_.”

“Unless he has _help_ ,” Peter says intently.

Derek snorts ruefully.“From who, you?We can’t even use magic the same way humans can.Or maybe you were thinking about Deaton, who knew you were the one that killed Laura the whole time and lied to my face about it.” _That_ particular grudge isn’t going away any time soon.

“He’s an emissary,” Peter replies waving away his concerns.“His oath is to the Hale Alpha.He might not be inclined to help us but he can’t do anything to harm us directly.I gave Stiles a scan I made from one our old books.”

“I thought all of those were lost in the fire,” Derek says.A lot of their family’s knowledge survived in digital form on a cloud server, but he went through Peter’s laptop and didn’t see anything remotely like a grimoire.

#  “All except for the old seiðbók we keep in the vault.”

#  Derek bites back an exasperated sigh.“You gave him a thirteen-hundred year old book of Dark Nordic Shamanic magic?What do you think he’s going to be able to do with that exactly?”

#  Peter shrugs.“I found it useful if you recall.”He takes a couple things out of his pockets and tosses them over.“Give him these.”

#  Derek stares at the objects in his hands in annoyed disbelief.“You’re kidding.”

#  “He’s having some self-worth issues for obvious reasons.”

#  “This will never work,” Derek mutters as he heads out, but dials Information to get the Stilinski’s home number anyway.

# 

#  ***

# 

#  Stiles meets him at the door with a scowl and clipped declaration of, “I’m grounded and can’t have _friends_ over.Make it fast.”

“Why are you grounded?” Derek asks without thinking.Whatever, it’s not like he’s expecting this go well.

“Because I smashed my cell phone and got wasted.My dad cut the grounding down from Forever to Two Weeks ‘cause it was birthday and all,” Stiles says acidly.

Derek decides to simply ignore the kid’s venom for the duration.“Peter said you’re having trouble with the book he gave you.I’m here to help.”

“Riiiiiiight.”Stiles leans out of the doorway and looks upwards.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if the sky has turned orange on me.”

“I Showed Up,” Derek points out.“Do you want my help?”

Stiles regards him silently for a long moment, lets out a disgusted sound, and steps aside, waving him through the door with a mocking flourish.“Come on in.” 

They head up to Stiles’s room in uncommunicative silence.It ‘s unnatural for Stiles to take part in silence of any kind and it makes Derek nervous.The sight that greets him in the kid’s bedroom does nothing whatsoever to lessen his feeling of unease.Loose sheets of paper with runes and translations cover the desk, the floor, the bed, and most of one wall.There are small glass bottles of herbs, powders, and bits of other things Derek doesn’t want to examine too closely.“You’ve…redecorated.”

“If by that you mean that it looks like an insane propmaster from the set of Merlin threw up in here, then yes,” Stiles drawls.

“How did you get all this translated in one week?” Derek wonders.

“I had a whole Runes Are Cool phase a few years back.It was a thing.”

What the hell kind of teenager teaches himself dead Scandinavian languages as _a thing_.“You can read Old Norse?”

“Dude, it’s _Proto_ -Norse,” Stiles corrects, like that makes it any less weird.“And it’s actually not that hard to figure out with an Old Norse dictionary when the source text is in the original Elder Futhark instead of the English transliteration.” 

“Right, of course,” Derek murmurs.“So if you can read it what’s the problem?”

Stiles grunts in frustration and plops down in his desk chair.“I _don’t know_.I’m not even sure this thing is the real deal.The hocus pocus in this book doesn’t match up with any description of Nordic witchcraft that I could find.There’s no Galdr, nothing at all about the Nine Realms, and with all this herbal stuff I’m starting to wonder if it’s actually a cookbook for weirdly seasoned savory dishes.I’ve tried all kinds of things and _nothing_ I do works.”He sighs dejectedly.“Maybe I should just re-panel the walls in rowan and live as a hermit.” 

Derek hates that Peter is always right; it makes it hard to justify killing him again.“Do you have a candle?”

“Like for a lamp?So you’re saying I should just give up and get my Diogenes on?” Stiles quips.

“A candle, Stiles.Yes or no.”

The kid rolls his eyes.“Yeah, yeah.Hold on Sour Wolf.”

The degree to which Stiles’s scent and mood have already brightened just from bitching and insulting him is making Derek uncomfortable, like this is the first substantive and most pleasant conversation the kid has had all week. It’s inexplicably depressing.“Put it on the desk.”

Stiles sets down a squat pillar candle and gives him.“Matches,” he mutters to himself.

“No matches.You’re going to light it with magic,” Derek says firmly.He’s never been much of an actor, but if he needs to muster up a convincing semblance of confidence if he wants Dumbo here to make it off the ground.

“Okay, I might enjoy breaking a rule or two every now and then, but maybe we start with something a little smaller than the fucking _Laws of Thermodynamics_?” Stiles snarks.

_ Runes Are Cool _ .There are pages with the summaries of the ideographic meanings of the Elder Futhark are right there, so he makes something up on the fly.“Inscribe this into the side of the candle: Hagalaz, Thurisaz, Kenaz.”

“Linear or Bind?”

“Bind,” Derek guesses.

“Right, that makes sense, Stiles murmurs starting to sound a little bit excited.He pulls an exacto knife out of drawer and uses it to carve in the symbols overlapping one another.The result looks a little like a stick figure man holding a stick, but Derek keeps that opinion to himself.

“Now sprinkle this on the wick,” he says handing him the vial Peter provided.

“What is it?” Stile asks uncorking it and taking a sniff, reeling back with a revolted expression when the scent of it hits him.

“Baelfire.”

“Been reading too much Robert Jordan have we?” Stiles drawls.“What the frilly heck is _balefire_?”

Derek snorts in amusement and gestures pointedly at the candle.“It’s charcoal from the Beltane Fire mixed with sulfur,” he explains as Stiles dusts the top of the candle with pungent powder.

“So basically, it’s gunpowder without a nitrate catalyst,” Stiles concludes.“If you tell me to “be that spark” I will mountain ash you into a corner and leave you there,” he warns.

“Just close your eyes and concentrate on lighting the candle,” Derek replies repressing a smile.

As expected, after a minute or so imperious gesturing while looking extremely constipated (it’s so, so hard not laugh) Stiles lets out a frustrated snarl turns a accusatory glare on him.“I can’t do this.”

Derek pulls the second prop he brought out of his pocket.“This triskele is a talisman my family has used for generations to focus our power,” he says solemnly, holding it out with reverence.“Alpha, Beta, Omega.”

Stiles accepts the metal disk carefully, staring it with wide eyes as though it might explode if not treated with respect.He rubs a thumb over the spirals with one hand and touches the runes engraved on the candle with other.“Kenaz, Thurisaz, Hagalaz.Control, Conflict, Chaos.”

“Exactly,” Derek says giving himself a mental pat on the back.“Again.Try keeping your eyes open this time.”

Stiles stares at the candle’s wick so hard the veins in forehead start to bulge out, but nothing happens.

Derek uses his last ditch strategy before the kid gives himself an aneurysm.“Scott came by my loft today…”

A thin jet of flame two feet high erupts from the candle, brilliant blue and blindingly bright.Stiles lets out a noise a charitable person might call a squeal and topples over backwards in his chair.“That.Was. _Awesome_!” he crows.

“That’s one word for it,” Derek mutters. _Disturbing_ would be another.In any case it _is_ impressive.He just never would have guessed that the thing holding Stiles back would be an _excess_ of emotional control.“Still feel like you need The Bite?”

Stiles pauses in his embarrassing victory dance and gives him a thoughtful look.“Would that make like, a hexenwulf?Because being a werewolf that can hurl magical fireballs would be _Bad Ass_.”

Disturbing is definitely the right word.“The book was written by ancestors so…maybe?”

“Let’s call that plan B, then,” Stiles says returning to his bizarre avian flailing.“So, does this make the new Deaton?”

“That’s the general idea,” Derek allows cautiously.“If you want.”

Stiles shrugs diffidently.“Meh, I’ll think about it.”

Who does he think he’s kidding?“Just try not to blow yourself up or open a hellmouth.”

“Dude I am _so_ Willow right now.”

The comparison is less than comforting, considering, and reminds Derek of potentially serious problem, one that he really wishes he didn’t have to deal with.But he is the Alpha, and it comes with the territory.“You need to fix things with Scott,” he says seriously.

Stiles freezes, joyous expression vanishing behind a stony mask.“I get it.You still want _him_ in your pack.”

The scent of _hurt_ rolling off him is so strong Derek feels a spike of sympathetic pain.“Yes,” he says truthfully.“But you are more valuable.”

“Uh huh.”Stiles clearly doesn’t believe him one bit.

“He’s your best friend.You need each other.It has nothing to do with me or my pack.”

“I guess.”

Derek will take it.“Get back to work, Stiles.I need you to be able to pull your own weight.”

The kid draws himself and fixes him with a challenging glare.“Okay, I’ll get right on that,” he replies sarcastically.

“Good,” Derek nods as though the snark went over his head.

He leaves after that, hanging around outside the house just long enough to hear Stiles diving into his papers with a constant angry-determined muttering.

Derek smiles to himself, shaking his head in exasperation tinged with beginning of something dangerously close to fondness.Certain disaster or no, Peter _was_ right; this is going to be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the Scott bashing is officially over. I just can't keep him and Stiles apart for too long. It's cruel.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles spends three more days sulking before he decides to get over himself and throw Scott a bone. A little one. He doesn’t let him in the house or call him, not even after he comes home one day and finds a new smart phone with the packs’ numbers already programmed into sitting on his desk (Derek’s relentless texts of _Talk to Scott_ have nothing to do whatsoever with him finally relenting). Instead they play Xbox over the internet with all their old fervor, jeering and swearing at one other and the others players, and not talking about anything even vaguely related to werewolves, magic, or, thank God, Allison. It’s nice and easy and safe (the digital violence probably helps by providing an outlet for his rage) and as far as he’s concerned it qualifies as progress.

Everyone else seems to disagree.

His dad and Melissa are officially Staying Out of It, not that that stops them from giving them endless lectures delivered through disappointed sighs and significant looks, the cheaters. The awkwardness at home has nothing on the nightmare school has turned into. He gets why Jackson did what he did. Lydia is his anchor, his epic de-kanimizing love, and Stiles has been very unsubtle about his life ruining crush on her. Now she’s not speaking to either of them beyond stating inflexibly that their problems are theirs and to sort out their shit without involving her. It makes lunch a little tense, so much so in fact that all of them acquire bubbles of empty space around them at their separate tables as the rest of student body either takes cover or places bets on whatever. Stiles sticks to his guns at first, but each day his anger cools and Scott’s puppy dog eyes get more wounded and soulful, eroding his resolve bit by agonizingly slow bit.

Surprisingly, it’s not him or Scott or even Jackson that finally snaps, but Isaac.

Stiles rushes downstairs the day before the full moon as the entire house shakes from someone, or some _thing_ hammering away at his wards. He’d replaced the reliable but problematic mountain ash powder with an infusion bolstered by a number of other protective herbs and minerals, the almost clear liquid painted onto each doorframe and windowsill in the appropriate runes, and keyed to him with his blood so he can raise and lower it without having to redo the whole thing every time a werewolf comes or goes (Peter has been helping him understand the mechanics of magic, and the Necrowolf is _brilliant_ , in an evilly unhinged almost Lydia-esque kind of way).

“Uh, hi?” Stiles squeaks at the sight of Isaac halfway to wolfed out and gripping Scott’s arm in one clawed hand.

“Let us in.”

“Not by the hair your chinny chin chin,” Stiles replies automatically.

“Why are there glowing magic symbols painted on your house?” Scott demands gold eyes wide and jerking around erratically.

Stiles jaw drops in shock. “You can see that?”

“Yes, it’s very pretty,” Isaac snaps. “Drop it.”

That seems like a very bad idea, what with the angry werewolf snarling at him and all, but Scott looks like he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and Stiles folds like a house of cards. “Fine,” he huffs lowering ward. “Come on in. I’ve got snausages.”

Isaac nods sharply and grabs him by the arm as well, hauling him and Scott both inside and shoving them towards the couch. “You guys screwed everything up. Fix it.” He stalks out of the room and into the kitchen leaving them with illusion of privacy.

“Well he’s come a long way,” Stiles observes. Of course, considering the phase of the moon and the amount of tension in Derek’s pack they’re probably lucky Isaac didn’t simply proceed with beating, biting, and/or clawing them into submission. “So…” Stiles begins avoiding Scott’s gaze and practically choking on the awkwardness.

“I’m sorry!” Scott blurts. “I’m a selfish jerk and you deserve better.”

As relieved as Stiles is to hear that, he feels a minor flash of irritation that the words were taken right out of his mouth. “I should have just reminded you what day it was instead of getting all butthurt and flipping out. Sorry,” he adds reluctantly. However much Scott may have deserved it, Stiles hurt him too by cutting him out and that isn’t okay either. “How did it go with Allison?” he asks hoping dropping her name will springboard them out of this angst fest.

“She uh…I told her about what happened last time we Skyped and she said she won’t talk to again until you call her and tell her I’ve stopped being an ass,” Scott admits sheepishly.

Stiles can’t help it; he bursts out laughing. It goes on a little too long and definitely too loud as weeks of simmering resentment and anger flood out of him. “Don’t worry Romeo, I’ll give Juliet a ring.”

Scott beams at him like he’s the greatest person ever. “You will? Thank you _so much_ , man. I promise I’ll try harder from now on.”

“No problem,” Stiles replies easily. He has no intention of letting things get so bad again, even if it means hexing the werewolf to get his attention when necessary.

“What’s up with you and Derek?” Scott, king of the non sequitur asks with a concerned expression.

“Can you not phrase it like that, because _ewwww_ ,” Stiles groans.

Scott nods in emphatic agreement. “But seriously dude. _Derek_? And what was up with glowing symbols? Hey, wasn’t that that thing you kept writing on your homework back in sixth grade?”

Stiles is a little surprised that the guy remembers that. “Yeah. It’s a ancient Nordic equivalent of my name from a runestone. It seemed like the right thing, you know?”

“No. I feel _really_ clueless right now. Since when can you do stuff like that anyway?”

“It’s a new thing,” Stiles says dismissively before they can get pulled back into the quagmire of drama the last two weeks have been. “And it’s related to the Derek thing, in that I’ll have a lot easier time of it saving all your little werewolf butts if have magic to back me up.”

Scott bites his lip like he’s trying to figure out how to ask something diplomatically.

Stiles has an idea about what and jumps in before the guy hurts himself. “Yes, I think part of the reason Derek’s helping me with this is to get you in his pack. No he’s not taking advantage of me. Yes we’re going to have to work with him, but that doesn’t necessarily make us _his_.”

“Oh. Okay,” Scott says, clearly relieved.

Isaac slinks back into the room. The anger has bled out of his expression but the tension remains along with a edge of disappointment, probably over Stiles not pushing Scott to join Derek’s pack. “Are you two okay now?”

“ _Pretty_ much,” Stiles confirms cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Erica and Boyd,” Isaac murmurs. “I need you to help me find them.   Derek told me not to ask but…” he trails off looking young and lost in a way he hasn’t since getting The Bite.

“Of course we’ll help,” Scott assures him earnestly. It’s like the his occasional epic best friend fails come from trying to be too nice a guy to too many people at once and inevitably dropping the ball.

“I thought they left Derek’s pack?” Stiles asks, desperately trying to suppress the memory of the last he saw them; the scene in the Argents’ basement is his subconscious’s favorite setting for the nightmares that like to sneak up on him just when his sleep is in danger of becoming actually restful.

“They did,” Isaac confirms, but something about his body language says that’s not the whole story. “But they’re still in town somewhere. I _know_ they’ll come back if I can just find them and talk to them.”

Stiles should probably say no. Failing that he definitely should call Derek and find out what’s lurking in the gaping holes in Isaac’s story. He’s not going to do either. He couldn’t help them before; left them in a _torture dungeon_ , and that is one debt he’ll gladly risk the Wrath of the Sour Wolf to rub out of his ledger. “What do you want us to do?”

Isaac practically wilts from relief. “Thank you. I overheard Peter talking about a tracking spell..?”

“Oh, that,” Stiles mutters rubbing a hand over the back of his head. Much to his annoyance he discovered that a big part of the reason his early attempts using the techniques in his book is that it was written by and for werewolves, which explains why it’s so radically different than the seiðr written about in the human histories. The tracking spell is his first attempt at adapting the ‘shifter magic for his own use. “I really can’t make any promises.”

“Just try. _Please_ ,” Isaac begs.

Oh _Hell’s Bells_ , and Stiles thought _Scott’s_ desperate puppy face was irresistible. Isaac looks like a lost cherub (well, four or five of them standing on each others’ shoulders maybe, dude is _tall_ ) trying to get home to the Raphael painting he came from. “Come on.”

His room looks a lot less like something from A Beautiful Mind now that the magic has moved out of pipe dream/obsession territory and into something real. It’s also something _supernatural_ and Stiles wants his dad to chalk up the previous disaster zone the space had been to a typical research binge instead of an ongoing lifestyle choice. He knows eventually if he continues to pursue this he’ll have no choice but to come clean, but he has no intention of facing that blowup until he absolutely has to. “Looking for chicken feet and human gallbladders?” he asks wryly watching the two werewolves looking around skeptically and sniffing.

“Are there really chicken feet?” Scott asks with a disturbed expression on face.

Stiles gives him a gimlet eye. “Are you morally opposed to the use of spare animal parts in life-saving acts of sorcery?”

“I’m happy you two got back together but can we _focus_ ,” Isaac growls, not sounding happy about it _at all_.

“Just hold your horses; it’s going to take me a while to mix up the spell,” Stiles admonishes. He takes a mortar and pestle out of his drawer and sets it on the desk. “Hang out here for a sec.” A quick trip down to the kitchen gets him two of the things he needs; the dubious expression on the ‘wolves faces when they see them is absolutely priceless.

“Kitchen spices?” Isaac asks flatly.

“Dude, do you know how expensive whole mandrake roots are?” Stiles retorts with a smirk.

“Funny, I never thought to ask.”

Scott pokes at the jar of cinnamon. “And this stuff really works?”

Stiles shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out. Get me the marigold from the windowsill, would ya?” Occasionally being The Sheriff’s Kid has drawbacks, one of which is the inevitable snooping (that might actually be more because his dad has very compelling reasons to think he’s Up To No Good, which, _fair_ ). Fortunately a surprising number of everyday things have major magical significance. Ground herbs from the grocery store may not be as potent as the fresh stuff gathered under the harvest moon with a silver knife while skyclad or what the fuck ever, but needs must. He plucks three of the flower heads from the potted plant (it’s magical _and_ decorative!) and drops them into the mortar. In goes a spoonful of cinnamon and six bay leaves, a quick grind with the pestle and voila, a savory aromatic magical sludge. “Okay, so the next part involves bleeding. You guys aren’t going to flip out and eat me, right?”

“I’m not putting any part of you in my mouth,” Isaac replies dryly.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “Dude, I love you like a brother but _no_ , not even the full moon could make me eat you.”

“I’m not sure if that’s touching or insulting,” Stiles mutters reaching for the fingersticks he keeps hidden in the bottom of his pencil cup. This is the tricky part, not so much the magic itself as not throwing up in the mortar and ruining the spell. Vomit probably has many fun and exciting mystical properties but tracking isn’t one of them. He pricks the side of his index finger and massages drops of blood out of it until they stop falling, focusing on priming the link that will connect him to Isaac and through them to Erica and Boyd. Theoretically the werewolf should be able to use the runic elements of the spell without assistance if he has enough training, but they really don’t have time for that. The herbs and blood act as a kind of spiritual transformer allowing Stiles’s magic to do the heavy lifting for him. Assuming he’s right about how of all of this mumbo jumbo works, that is. This is going to be his first real test, and Peter’s assurances aren’t exactly worth their weight in gold, however terrifyingly impressive his resurrection was. “Isaac, I need your claws.”

“What for?” the Beta asks, finally beginning to look more intrigued than anxious.

Stiles coughs uncomfortably. “The uh…the runes need to be cut in over the third eye.”

“What!?” Scott yelps.

“Do it,” Isaac says immediately holding out his hand.

“Catch me if I pass out, okay?” Stiles asks nervously. “Um, you can hold back your healing, right?”

“I…think so?”

Good enough. Stiles pulls the dictionary down from the shelf, takes out the last thing he needs to hopefully make this work. He had been less than amused when Peter revealed that Derek had Magic Feathered him with a Made In Chine knickknack, but at the same time it’s just too good not pay forward. “This is the Triskelion, the ancient talisman of the Hale Pack,” he says solemnly.

Isaac accepts it eyes boggling in his head. “What do I do with it?”

“Focus on Erica and Boyd. They’re your pack; you have some kind of connection to them that you can feel don’t you?”

“I’m _supposed_ to,” Isaac mutters. “Derek…”

“Is kind of inept at the whole Alpha thing, I know.” And the Understatement of the Year Award goes to…

Scott snorts. “You can say that again.”

“Not the time,” Stiles stage whispers. “Close your eyes and concentrate on the Triskelion. Three spirals, three Betas; one symbol, one Alpha, one _pack_.” If the magic thing doesn’t work out maybe he’ll try a career in motivational speaking.

Isaac follows his direction, face scrunching up in a desperate expression of need as he whispers to himself.

Stiles gulps, tells himself firmly that puking is _not_ acceptable. The prayer-like murmuring coming from the Beta’s lips helps harden his resolve significantly. Isaac has been through _enough_ without losing the only real friends he’s ever had (sometimes Stiles wishes Mr. Lahey had lived; death by Kanima was way too quick for that miserable son of a bitch). He takes the Beta’s right hand in his left, using his other to grip the clawed index finger like a pencil to inscribe the bind rune just above Isaac’s eyebrows. Perthro, that which is hidden, the road concealed. Ehwaz, motion, following the right path. Dagaz, awareness, the clarity of dawn. Wolf claws aren’t exactly precision instruments, so it takes longer than Stiles would like and the symbol is a lot bigger than strictly necessary, but at least the cuts stay open long enough for him to rub the herb goop into them. He feels a frisson of something crackle over the back of his neck when he finishes, _knows_ the spells is working. “Done.”

“Wow,” Isaac gasps, gold eyes flying open wide.

“What do you see?” Scott asks with an annoying amount of worry in his tone.

“I don’t know, a trail of mist?”

Stiles doesn’t bounce up and down with glee, but it’s only because he suddenly feels very, very tired. “Well? _Follow it_ ,” he orders ignoring the pretty sparkles at the edge of his own vision as he grabs the Oh Shit Bag he’s been putting together from the closet.

 

***

 

They take the Jeep at first, following Isaac’s directions as the trail veers and zigzags unpredictably, something for which Stiles has no explanation whatsoever. Suddenly it straightens out, leading them to yet another of Beacon Hill’s derelict warehouses. There must be some kind of werewolf squatting manual that Derek shared with them; that or they just aren’t trying very hard to avoid being found.

“This kind of reminds me of the time I did shrooms at Greenberg’s birthday party,” Isaac mutters.

“Huh. Thinks there’s a market for this stuff? Maybe I can make the magic stuff pay for itself,” Stiles quips.

“I think your dad might have a problem with you becoming a drug dealer,” Scott points out.

“It’s getting brighter,” Isaac says urgently, hurrying forward into an open area between several buildings, weeds sticking up everywhere through cracks in the pavement. “It…stops here.”

Stiles spins around in place. “They’re not here.” Which doesn’t make _any_ sense. He could understand if the spell just fizzled when he first cast it, but leading them on a wild goose chase.

“No shit Sherlock,” Isaac snarls.

“Wait, what do you see _exactly_?” Scott asks in a diplomatic tone.

“Gold mist. It’s all around us.”

“Oh _crap_ ,” Stiles spits. There was a lot of lore about rune-based magic and “weaving”, as in _weaving fate_ , but he hadn’t taken it all that seriously. He definitely wasn’t trying to get that effect, although in retrospect finding a place in time isn’t any more physically improbable than locking onto a person in space. “Um, it’s possible the spell lead us to them in a cause and effect kind of way.”

Both werewolves stare at him nonplussed, actually in Isaac’s case _angrily_ nonplussed. “Which. Means?” Derek must be giving him lessons in non-verbosity.

“Coming here, now, changes something in the future,” Stiles explains, whishing he hadn’t left his bag of tricks in the Jeep. He’s only got one punch to throw with what he has on him and it’s a doozy, _not_ something he can use lightly. “Whatever’s about to happen will somehow result in you finding Erica and Boyd.”

“What do you mean _whatever is about to happen_?” Scott asks nervously.

“Really? Dude, you should know better than to just toss that out there into the Universe. It’s _listening_ ,” Stiles hisses.

Something huge barrels into Isaac and the werewolf goes down hard, groans once, and stops moving.

“Holy shit!” Scott yelps.

Stiles doesn’t even have time to open his mouth for a pithy retort before whatever it is makes another pass and takes down Scott just as easily. When the creature finally stops moving long enough for Stiles to get a good look at it he kind of wishes it hadn’t. It’s an Alpha, and Alpha that makes Peter look like a fucking Pomeranian, half again as tall as the Necrowolf was in hybrid form and twice the mass. It also looks…fractured, as though the werewolf went too long being of two minds about something and started to literally split down the middle. “Um, hey there little fella?” Stiles squeaks putting his hands up and backing away slowly. He has a feeling this is going to hurt.

The Alpha rushes him, but instead of shredding him into confetti it grabs him by the front of his shirt with a gargantuan clawed hand and hauls him into the air, stretches one of his arms out straight against his struggling, and completely ignores his ineffectual attempts to kick it (the Alpha could at least have the courtesy to _pretend_ some of them hurt; werewolves, _no_ social skills). Despite what he told Derek, Stiles doesn’t even consider just letting the giant fangs descending towards his arm sink in without a fight. Instead he palms his contingency plan: the remainder of the baelfire, blended with petroleum jelly, and enclosed in a candle wax shell inscribed with the igniting rune he came up with. As soon as the Alpha’s head comes within reach he shoves the ball of magic napalm in the werewolf’s ear and wills it alight.

The next thing Stiles knows he’s flying through the air while the Alpha roars in agony and terror, landing painfully on the weathered pavement between Isaac and Scott. Aside from what will surely be a lovely collection of bruises all down one side he’s basically uninjured, while the Alpha is in full retreat with one side of its head turned into grilled hamburger. The same cannot be said of his hoodie, fallen in the line of duty with a gaping rent six inches long in one of the sleeves. Nonetheless his spirits remain undampened, buoyed up with We Survived giddiness and smug satisfaction that his crazy idea actually _worked_.

“Ungh. My head,” Scott groans coming to.

“Why is there a six year old girl shrieking in my ear?” Isaac bites out.

“Oh come _on_ ,” Stiles replies. “I finally made it through a fight without getting beaten up, kidnapped, paralyzed, or nearly drowned,” he gloats. “It’s my party and I’ll shriek if I want to. Suck it.”

“Stiles you’re bleeding!” Scott gasps grabbing his arm and pulling apart the edges of the tear in his sleeve.

Isaac rolls his eyes. “It’s barely a scratch. I think he’ll make it.”

“Hey not all of us have superhealing Dog Breath,” Stiles retorts without any real heat. The cut looks so innocuous, a mere four inches long, barely deep enough to bleed freely, and even so, there’s only a trickle. It wouldn’t need stitches even if it hadn’t come from one of the Alpha’s fangs, which kind of renders first aid moot, whichever way it turns out.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks, concerned. “You look kind of pale.”

“He’s fine,” Isaac mutters sullenly.

Stiles is pretty sure the Beta won’t be when Derek hears about this little stunt. He also strongly suspects that Boyd and Erica didn’t just run off. That can be a problem for _after_ tomorrow’s full moon. “Let’s go.”

Scott nods in agreement, once more focused on the bleeding cut. “We should clean this up before it gets infected.”

Stiles manages to hold back the hysterical giggle that threatens to burst out give away his secret, but it’s a near thing.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek would say he’s surprised when Scott turns up to spend the full moon with him and his pack, but shock and confusion seem to have frozen his vocal chords.

“Oh? And where is Stiles?” Peter asks instead.

“Who cares?” Jackson lisps sullenly, fangs already peeking out from behind his lips well before moonrise.

“The whole point of helping learn magic is so that he can do things like keep out of control wolves on the full moon,” Derek growls in frustration, recovering use of his voice.

“Why would he miss a chance to mountain ash Jackson?” Isaac adds.

Scott grimaces guiltily. “He smelled really off today, like he was sick or something. My mom said that Alpha gave him a concussion. She called the Sheriff and he switched off the late shift tonight so…”

Derek bites back his objection that Stiles could just come by, seal in Jackson, and head back out if necessary. The kid has a perfectly legitimate reason to be pissed. “Fine.”

“He uh…also to told me to “stare at you until you get uncomfortable enough to crack and spill whatever Secrets of Doom you’re keeping.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Isaac huffs.”

“Later,” Derek snarls. He needs Scott helping him tonight, not going off on another righteous indignation tear. If nothing else he wants a another pair of eyes on Peter to make sure the man doesn’t needle at Jackson just for the fun of it.

Scott fidgets uncomfortably. “So we’re just going to…stand around glaring at each other until morning?”

“As much fun as that sounds like, I thought we might go on a run,” Derek drawls.

“A run?” Scott repeats incredulously.

How can Derek even begin to explain to this boy what a full moon run is for a pack, something that sounds so simple, and yet creates feelings and sensations that are so far beyond human experience that no spoken language has words for them. Even if there were, words are not Derek’s forte. “Yes, Scott; a run. If we come across an interesting scent there might even be a hunt.”

“ _Gross_.”

“This is going to be _so_ entertaining,” Peter predicts, grinning viciously.

At least someone will be enjoying themselves.

 

***

 

Derek is having trouble keep the Run to the preserve and out of populated areas. The Alpha in him wants to charge into the center of town and rip apart the flimsy human-built structures until he either finds his missing Betas or there’s nothing left standing. Instead he ignores his instincts and focuses on his sense of smell. Despite what he told Scott, this isn’t the right night for a hunt, not with Jackson completely lost to the wolf, so not only does he have to avoid edging too close to civilization, he must also constantly change course to avoid the scent trails of potential prey before the Betas’ less sensitive noses can pick up on them. It’s mentally taxing, annoying, and somewhat depressing, so very far from his memories of running with his family.

At least he has a pack, although the formation they’re moving in is as telling as it irritating. Jackson keeps right behind and slightly to one side of him, constantly tries to take over the Run. Not so much as a challenge to Derek’s authority, but because the guy is an overeager puppy underneath that chip on the shoulder (he has to remind himself, repeatedly, that videotaping the Beta bounding around happily and using it for blackmail is not proper Alpha behavior, not that that would have stopped his mom or sister in this situation). Scott hangs just far enough back and away that he’s more moving in the same direction as they are than running _with_ them. Isaac is between him and Derek, relative position yo-yoing back and forth with galling uncertainty. Peter brings up the rear, wisely never drifting close enough to Derek’s back for instinct to interpret the move as a threat. His uncle might be insane, but there’s obviously enough sense remaining to him to know that Derek would tear him apart without hesitation if it came to that. Family only goes so far when he has a pack to worry about.

He runs the Betas until even Jackson is worn down enough to shift back.

“This was actually…fun,” Scott muses unhappily, rolling the word “fun” around like it leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Derek draws a breath to say something scathing, but the air he take in brings with it a sharp musky scent he’s only encountered _once_ before in his life, but that experience is indelibly inscribed into his memory. It was one of his first times running with his family after he was old enough to join the adults instead of staying behind in the basement chained up with the other cubs, a frigid wolf moon during one of the harshest winters in recent memory. His dad and Peter had veered off to investigate the scent of fresh blood and the animal they found crouched over a dead buck was very upset over having its meal interrupted. It had likely come down from the Sierras, drawn by the abundant game on Hale lands, prey which was so plentiful because all _sane_ natural predators avoid werewolf territories like the plague. This one had gutted Peter and half-removing his dad’s arm before his mom could catch up with them, shifting into her full Alpha form to deal with it, the one and only time Derek ever saw her take that shape. Peter being Peter had the animal stuffed afterward, and it’s probably still down in the vault silently menacing a shelf of Hale family knickknacks. “ _Fuck_ ,” he snarls.

“I haven’t smelled that in a while,” Peter says nervously.

Jackson gulps loudly. “What _is_ that?”

“Wolverine,” Derek growls in reply. “Our natural enemy. It will try to kill us and it can.” And he can’t even take his Alpha shape to fight it, too worried that his instincts will overpower him if he does.

Scott tilts his head in confusion, nostrils flaring, a gesture that might as well be a sign around his neck reading Werewolf: Please Bisect, and Derek makes a note to work with him on blending in better. “Stiles told you what his real name means?”

“We need to move,” Derek snaps. “If we run full out it shouldn’t be able to…” he trails off as Scott’s words penetrate. “ _What_?”

“His name, nephew, Niłchiis. It means “wolverine”,” Peter explains.

 _The shape you take reflects the person that you are_. Derek whirls on Scott, grabs him by the shoulders and slams him into a tree. “Last night; was Stiles _Bitten_!?”

“He was just _scratched_!” Scott protests, struggling to break free.

“And now he’s a Kuikuhachau, a fucking Native American nightmare,” Derek snarls.

“But…he’s not even Native American! His granddad was only named…that because of that thing in that Army movie about talking to the wind!”

Derek feels an absurd urge to apologize to the Navajo people on behalf of Scott McCall. “The only time pagan shapeshifter gods care about the color of your skin is when they’re cooking you over a sacrificial fire and want to check and see if you’re done!”

“As fascinating as this discussion is,” Peter interjects, moving past them in the direction of the deepest part of the preserve. “I hope you’ll understand if I don’t hang around to see how this all turns out.”

“Peter don’t!” Derek barks.

Too late.

His uncle breaks into a run, makes it about a hundred feet into the trees before a dark shape drops from the canopy. Peter’s agonized screams cut off in a wet gurgling. Silence.

“This isn’t happening,” Jackson whimpers.

“That _can’t_ be Stiles,” Scott whispers direly. “He wouldn’t…”

Two points of cold foxfire green light appear in the darkness as the wolverine ghosts forward out of the shadows, fully shifted. Weres capable of attainting animal form keep their mass when they do so, which makes for some uncommonly but not impossibly large wolves. In Stiles’s case the result is even more frightening, because the animal that nearly took out two Betas in the mere seconds was about average size for its kind, some thirty pounds, meaning that the skinny teen is about five times that, more than twice the size of the very largest wild specimens. Unlike the animal Derek saw when he was a kid, which resembled a small fluffy bear, Stiles’s spare frame and short summer coat cause him to look much more like what he really is.

“It’s…a big weasel?” Isaac blurts.

“Please don’t insult the Giant Death Ferret,” Derek says, affecting a calm he doesn’t feel. The Beta isn’t wrong, but clearly hasn’t noticed the massive paws. Normally they act as show shoes allowing wolverines to move easily over deep snow, but on this supersized version they’re as large as _actual_ show shoes, making the claws tipping each of its five toes roughly the size of a hunting knife. He could probably win a fight, but if he loses Stiles would be an Alpha, and there’s no telling how much damage he would do before the finally sets. “Get ready to run,” he whispers.

“Where?” Jackson asks eagerly.

“Stiles’s house. All of our scents are there. It might be enough to stop him from attacking us.” It’s one hell of a long shot, but Derek doesn’t point that out. “On three.”

They run.

The wolverine roars, a fearsome basso rumble that doesn’t belong coming from anything smaller than an enraged grizzly, and gives chase.

 

***

 

Derek hasn’t managed to come up with an explanation to give the Sheriff for four werewolves bursting through his front door like they own the place, but ultimately it isn’t necessary. When he reaches for the front door he’s thrown backwards into the Betas as light and thunder split the air and they all go down in a pile.

“Wards,” Scott grunts somewhere underneath him.

“Thanks for the warning,” Derek snarls.

And then the Sheriff throws open the door with his gun in his hand, and the night is complete. “Hale? Scott? Would someone care to explain what the hell is going on?” he asks mildly. “And by the way, where is Stiles?”

Right behind them. Derek only has a split second to make a decision. “No time,” he spits darting forward. Stilinski has surprisingly fast reflexes for a human, but the Sheriff isn’t expecting a rush coming at him at inhuman speed, and Derek is an Alpha. He snatches the gun, tosses it to Isaac, and hauls Stilinksi over his shoulders. “Sorry about this, Sheriff.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re _doing_!? _Put me down_!”

Derek ignores him and bolts for the trees. He runs until the Sheriff stops struggling before he sets him down, hoping they’ve managed to get enough a lead on Stiles that they can rest for a moment without getting filleted. “We’re werewolves,” he explains without preamble, shifting into Beta form to demonstrate. He isn’t expecting an enthusiastic reception but is still caught off guard when the Sheriff unloads the can of bear mace right in his face, the pain forcing back into human form.

“Jesus Christ it’s _genetic_ ,” Jackson observes hysterically.

“Sheriff, stop!” Scott yells desperately; probably afraid Derek is going to something violent. And he might, if he wasn’t a little preoccupied by the fucking bear mace that feels like it’s burning holes in his face and airways.

“You…you’re…” Stilinski stammers.

“A werewolf,” Scot finishes.

There’s a beat of silence then a gruff, “Alright.”

“You Stilinskis are _out of your fucking minds_ ,” Derek coughs. Any further explanation is cut off by a hideous stench so overpowering it cuts right through the mace.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Isaac moans.

“It smells like a ham dissolving in nitric acid,” Scott chokes out.

Derek would ask how he knows that, but suspects the answer is _Stiles_. “He’s trying to blind out sense of smell with musk.”

“He who?” the Sheriff demands.

“Stiles,” Isaac replies. “He’s a werewolverine.”

“A what?”

Jackson lets out a high-pitched whine of fear. “Why are we just standing around here?”

“We need a plan,” Derek growls.

“Yeah, one that includes a _blind Alpha_ ,” Jackson hisses.

“Why aren’t you healing?” Isaac asks.

“ _I am_ ,” Derek grits out. “But until I can wash this shit off it’ll _keep_ burning me.”

“I’d apologize for that, but you still haven’t told how my son managed to get himself turned into a werewolverine,” the Sheriff says acidly.

At least the man isn’t jumping to blaming Derek. That’s something. “I promise I’ll tell you everything provided he doesn’t kill us all first.”

“Why hasn’t he?” Isaac wonders aloud.

The Sheriff sighs, rubbing a hand over his face by the sound of skin scraping on skin. “He’s probably hungry. Wolverines strike from ambush. It’s Stiles, once he learned what his name meant I was subjected to every wolverine factoid known to man,” he explains into the surprised silence.

“What, Peter wasn’t enough?” Jackson asks.

“Peter? _Peter Hale_?” the Sheriff demands.

“I think there’s some things even a wolverine won’t put in its mouth,” Derek mutters. This does give him an idea though. “Let’s give him something better to eat. We head upwind, try and find a prey animal, kill it, and run while he gorges himself.”

“And go where?” Isaac asks.

“The clinic!” Scott supplies excitedly. “The Sheriff can use the mountain ash to keep him out.”

Stilinski makes a choking sound. “The Sheriff can _what_ now?”

“Scott, you need to carry him. Isaac, you remember what deer smell like?”

“Yes?”

Derek shifts back into Beta shape. Even with his eyes swollen and burned the non-physical aspect of his vision remains. With his hearing still intact hopefully it will be enough. “Now,” he barks. They take off running, following Isaac’s lead. Derek hears the excited heartbeat coming at him and jukes to the side in time to avoid more than a glancing blow to his side. He presses a hand over the wound to make sure nothing falls out before his healing takes care of it and keeps running.

 

***

 

The plan comes off without a hitch, at least at first. Isaac catches the scent of herd of mule deer once they get clear of cloying musk and manages to lame one of the does when they take them by surprise. The problem is they have no way of knowing if it worked or not, leaving them with no choice but to continue on to the clinic and hope for the best, a fairly foreign concept for Derek. Worse still, their pace begins to flag considerably as the exertion from the earlier run adds up with strain of carrying the Sheriff, even with Isaac and Jackson taking turns with Scott, and the necessity of keeping Stiles from following them into town forces them to take a long, circuitous route to Deaton’s. When the clinic finally comes into sight the Betas sag against convenient trees with relief.

“I think I need a minute,” the Sheriff groans sounding extremely nauseous; riding piggyback on a teenage werewolf can’t be a very smooth trip after all.

“I am so kicking Stilinski’s ass tomorrow,” Jackson pants beside Derek.

“Good luck with that,” he drawls. Something heavy comes whistling through the air towards them, and Derek shoves his Beta out of the way before it can strike his unprotected bag. The object impacts his chest, a sharp prong piercing his chest and somehow pinning him to the tree at his back.

“Holy Shit!” Isaac blurts.

There’s a sharp snapping sound as Derek wrenches himself free, trying to understand the unnerving absence of a sound the absence of which sends a profound sense of wrongness vibrating through him. He takes a step forward and falls to his knees, unable to get air into his lungs, realizing the what the sudden quiet is.

His heart isn’t beating. There’s a flash of pain as a massive set of powerful jaws clamp down on his arm. Then nothing.

 

***

 

Derek wakes up lying on the metal exam table in the clinic and knows immediately he’s not in the physical world any longer. “I just got killed by Stiles Stilinksi,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his wonderfully mace-free eyes with heels of his hands. There’s probably some special level of hell reserved for people who die this ridiculously. Peter can keep him company.

“You’re not dead yet. Not quite.”

He knows that voice. “Mom?”

Talia Hale shimmers into being, looking just as she had the last time he saw her. “Derek,” she greets holding out her arms.

He scrambles off the table and throws himself into them. “You’re here.”

“Always.” She pulls back from him. “We don’t have a lot of time, so you need to listen carefully.”

“I don’t understand,” he whispers, hurt by her retraction.

“You will. Right now your pack is in danger.”

“I know that,” Derek growls in frustration. “I know and I can’t do anything about it. I was never supposed to be an Alpha. Now that Laura and Peter are gone…” he trails off with a miserable whine. Ridiculous as it is, killing his uncle himself would have hurt less than having him _taken_ like this.

“Look at me,” his mom says placing her hands on either side of his face, eyes glowing red. “You are not alone, far less than you realize. Our family has protected this town for almost a hundred years and will continue to do so long after your time has passed.”

Derek wants to believe her, to accept her faith in him, but he can’t, not when it’s his fault she died. “How?”

She gives him a small smile he never thought he’d see again, the one where she knows something he doesn’t and is enjoying watching him try to figure it out. “I’m going to give you what you need to face Deucalion. Have faith.” She stands on tiptoe to kiss his forehead. “You are my son. I know you miss us, but please take at least a century and a half before joining the us here again.”

“I’ll try,” Derek murmurs, stunned by the sight of her eyes, now glowing _gold_ instead of red.

“And do tear my dear brother a new one when you see him next.”

The scene around him fades to black before he can ask.


End file.
